The Sixty First Hunger Games
by Caxis
Summary: This is a fan fiction for The Hunger Games, with original characters and a new plotline, though it does use the same framework as Suzanne Collins' masterpiece, the Games. I hope you like it! This is one of my favorite trilogies, and very fun to write. I will most likely continue, if I get positive reviews. For now here's the first chapter. Constructive critizism welcomed! -Caxis
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all!**

**This is my first post. I hope you like this particular fan fiction, which is based on The Hunger Games, BEFORE Katniss and Peeta's adventure. The heroine of this story is a girl named Ivory Legend, (which is a name I may use in other fan fictions as well because I just love it!). It has chapters, but because I unfortunately do not have the time to create a fully fledged novel type fiction, chapters will be shorter and fewer than the average book. However, this will have a developed plotline, and I will continue, if it goes far. I _understand _that there may be some similarities between characters in this fiction to characters in the original book (for example, Ella developed into a Prim like character). Trust me, this will be very different in many ways. And however it may seem, Austin is NOT like Gale. If I continue the differences will become obvious.**

**Hope you like it!**

* * *

**CHAPTER 1**

The water reflects stars, gazing down like a thousand gleaming eyes. I suppose once upon a happier time people loved the stars, and the night, like I do. Now that is not so. People hide from the stars. For nowadays there is no one and nothing to trust. Not even the ever watchful black carpet of night.

The soft lining of my jacket, so pale a blue it is almost white, slides along the skin of my arms as I shrug it off. It drops into the lazily swaying grass. I glance in distaste at the delicate lace the jacket covered, black to blend into the sky, with a lining of sequins that gleam occasionally. It is a dress, long, tight and slightly translucent to show a form fitting sleeveless leotard. It is slightly worn and beat, but still in good condition, and obviously expensive. I think it used to be my mothers.

The party wasn't worth it. I should never have dug the disgusting thing out.

Without hesitation I reach back and unzip it. I breathe deeply and freely as the tight corset is loosened and removed. Though the air is chilly and my legs and arms are bare, I rip the clasp from my auburn hair, letting the wavy locks tumble out of its bun and over my shoulders, and elegantly dive into the calm water in just my thin leotard.

The icy surface is pleasantly shocking. I shiver as I twist against the current, gently blinking until I can see past a blurry sheet of solid blue.

Water is beautiful.

Despite all my troubles, I would not live in any District apart from Four.

I know this for sure.

My eyes are trained so everything is clear and bright underwater, even in the late night. I drift blissfully, as if wrapped in silk. Everything is numb and still.

When the familiar catching feeling in my throat grows insistent, I sigh in my mind and propel myself to the surface. I often wish I could run as fast as I could swim. In reality, I unfortunately fall short of even the average speed on land.

I drag myself to the bed of grass and undergrowth where I had first approached, pulling myself up and out of the river. I let myself slide back to lie down, glaring up into space. Now that my brief escape from the world had ended I can't help but think of why I came searching for sweet relief.

I had left early from a District bash, complete with food, escorts, and entertainment. I hadn't wanted to go, and for good reason. I knew what would occupy the thoughts of every girl and boy from the ages twelve to eighteen.

The reaping.

The haunting of every mind in the "lesser" Districts. The prize and pride of every Career soul.

Except for mine.

They were all excited. It was coming, again. A chance at eternal wealth and fame. A chance at a thrilling test of courage, that would result in respect from your District and a shower of affection from the Capitol.

And the price? Only twenty three lives.

I am the only one who sees it for what it is.

I live in a community of monsters.

But it is probably only because of how I was raised, and how I live, day after day after day. Alone.

All of the poor see the pampered Districts as groups of toys the Capitol can manipulate. Toys with perfect lives, plentiful food, and slackened laws.

Some of our population has just that, it's true. But their eyes seem to skim right over the small percentage of struggling families that live on the borderline of their Districts, which is mostly woods. The one's who can't support themselves. Who are left to fall in the dust. The beggars, hunters, outlaws, and handicapped. The Black Market. The orphanage, filled to the brim with unwanted children. Practically every District has this. The unbalance is a part of life, which is the only reason the Capitol allows it to continue.

In District four, we call this percentage The Brink.

I gaze down the length of the river. If one should follow it, they would eventually find a steep cliff, jagged and plentiful in shabby, unkempt grass, weeds, brambles, and other more unpleasant undergrowth. It is not too high, and not terribly hard to climb, though most don't care about what lies beyond it in any case, so they do not try. The river itself rises in a small waterfall and continues to wind through the trees at the top of the cliff.

If one _were _to scale it, they would find themselves walking through steadily thickening forests, dark and confusing; but soon the trees would thin and spread, to reveal The Brink.

The Brink, itself, is an appropriate name, for the population beyond District Four's unfamiliar and plentiful territory is on the brink of starvation, exhaustion, and in dire cases, death. Though we persevere, everyone knows it is true. We are the definition of desperate.

Nonetheless, I am proud of my neighbors. They are strong. And we, The Brink folk, are the only people of our district who are against what everyone else is for.

The Hunger Games.

It is the thing of dreams for most. It is a thing of nightmares for us.

I shudder as faces flash in front of my eyes.

Beth. Fourteen years old. Sweet as sugar. Caring, bright, sometimes just simply naïve. Eyes of the palest blue, paler even in contrast to her dark skin and short hair. She wouldn't last three minutes in the arena. She'd curl up in a ball and pray.

June. Thirteen. She's constantly acting older than her age, pretending to be tougher than she is, telling people she's been outside of District Four, on wild adventures…such an imagination… and yet truthfully, she's scared of her own shadow. She can only trust me with her secrets. She's tough in her own way, hiding her fears… but if she was chosen as a tribute, I don't know how long it would be until she broke down. I don't want to think about it.

Cyan. Fifteen years old. Sarcastic, smart, and snappy, with a tolerance level of zero. This is a girl who didn't put up with any nonsense. Who is as tough as nails, as cold as ice, and as thick as stone. Even her jet black hair and narrow dark eyes told people not to mess with her… yet there was something about her that made people want to feel close to her. And, if it was played right? She wouldn't push them away. She would probably last longer than most in the Games. She might even make it out. But there were far more dangerous competitors to think about.

Ella. Only twelve. She is bouncy and kind and concerned… like an energetic little puppy. She is also soft, fragile. Her long blonde hair is always twisted in an elegant braid when she is in the house and out on business, but when she isn't in sight of her mother and father, she will let it loose, and it will flow in impossibly straight, beautiful sheets… so tame compared to my own waist length, dark brown, reddish –tinged, unkempt waves. This girl is the definition of optimistic. She also has a mother, father, and little brother to think about. Because of the number of people in her household, though it may seem few, and the unfortunate conditions, her name is in the Reaping twenty times. It is almost enough to break my heart. Seeing her face, blood streaked, with a glassy, unseeing gaze…

Quinn. Seventeen. One of my closest friends. She is fairly silent, very tall, and good at hiding her emotions, though never from me. Very thoughtful, very clever. Quinn specializes in herbs and first aid. I'd learned much from her. She is also quick. I can see her doing well in the arena, though every second of every day my eyes would stare, unblinking, at the screen, daring to hope… If I could, I would volunteer in her place. I would volunteer for any of them. But it is no longer allowed in the higher class Districts. There was a clash, not too long ago, where blood was spilled over the matter. Now, whoever is chosen is chosen. There is no hope that a crazy, determined, heartless Career will come to your rescue.

In fact, in our generation…you're kidding yourself if you believe there is hope at all.

These are the few children I have come to know and love as my own family, in replacement of the one I lost seven years ago, when I was nine. It's a story I'd rather not recall. In short words… disgraceful mother who decided she was sick of us all, heartbroken father who tried his best to keep me and Rae supported, the threat of starvation hanging over our heads, and finally a sickness that rendered both my father and my sister incapable of taking care of themselves. Technically I live in the orphanage, but I find myself spending days on end under the blanket of trees around us, and next to the river. I love the river.

There are more children and families. So many more, in The Brink alone. But it is hard to get to know and trust many others when everyone is aware that we who are desperately trying to stay alive would do anything to keep themselves and their families going. Anything. Including various forms of treachery.

I have briefly met, or recognized, others from the main part of District Four as well. A connection that Quinn (who is more involved with the outer folk than the rest of us) and a richer girl bought us all invitations to a celebratory party up in town square. One that I couldn't bear to attend for longer than mere minutes. Which is how I ended up here, by the riverbed, stripped of my fancy wear and gazing into darkness, deep in thought.

Until a muffled voice behind me makes me jump and gasp.

"Ivory!" It shouts, then chortles at my expression, just barely visible in the black night. "Hah. You didn't hear me coming, did you?"

Had I forgotten to mention Austin?

Silly me.

A boy, sixteen, climbs smoothly over a rustling bush and drops to the grass next to me. His warm brown eyes are bright and cheerful, his grin easy. Messily cut, short blonde hair crowns his head. I sometimes tell people he's my brother. They can guess it isn't true, what with the fact they know the story of my family, and that we look nothing alike. But he feels like one.

"Sup?" He laughs, leaning back, like he had been there all day and was frankly bored. I shove him.

"Oh, There's just a life changing event tomorrow, that's currently dominating all the thoughts of every person in the District. Besides that, nothing much." I tease.

His eyes grow dark and serious. "Don't joke about that." He says sharply, and I blink in surprise. "I've been getting really edgy. We've all been lucky, you know? None of our group has been chosen yet. But… I have a bad feeling." He shudders, then looks at me intensely. I draw back a little, worried about his concern. "It's not going to be you." Austin says with a steely expression, but behind it there is fright.

I struggle to attempt a convincing smile. "Nah, out of all the people in our District? Four is pretty big. And the Careers are determined. Their names have been in there a million times, not because they actually need the extra grain. It's not gonna be you either." I add. "It isn't going to be anyone we care about." I wince, realizing how heartless that sounds. It's true though. Every year, an unrecognizable name is called. Every year, instead of sorrow for that person, we feel relief. Sheer, one hundred percent relief.

He smiles back, genuinely this time, and stands, holding out a hand. "C'mon. Get your jacket and dress and let's head back to The Brink."

* * *

Sunlight glares through my eyelids, turning them a reddish hue. I squint and yawn, turning over and burying my face in a meek graying pillow.

"Up and at 'em!" A voice sings, yanking thin covers from my grasp. I grumble, sitting up blearily. I blow a strand of dark hair from my face, and focus on the girl in front of me.

"Bethany Gleeson" I snap, knowing she hates it when I use her full name. "What reason could you possibly have for waking me up this early in the morning when I stumbled across your doorstep so late at night?" I often chose to crash at one of their houses instead of returning to my own bleak, bare room, or the forest floor.

She purses her lips, looking cross. "The Reaping, genius!"

I wince. Right.

I am soon standing by the door, my sun streaked hair brushed back into a tightly knotted velvet ribbon, my arms wrapped with the gossamer sleeves of a simple white gown and my face clean of dirt or smudged pencil marks (for once), making my almond shaped, electric green eyes stand out against my light skin. I finger the skirt uncomfortably with one hand, the other clenched tightly in Beth's grasp as we wait for the others. We all, even Cyan, abandon any pretense of strength and pride on this day. We all need each other.

A silhouette appears, outlined against the steadily rising sun. I nod in greeting to Quinn and June, trekking their way toward us with solemn faces. June's gaze quickly darts to mine, and her eyes are all the words I need to hear. I slip away from Beth and walk into the tiny, empty kitchen. June follows.

As I turn to face her, she relaxes her stiff expression to one of fright. Her hands clench and shake. "Ivory, I just have this feeling..."

I hold a finger to her lips. "Shh. It's okay June." I smile gently, despite the aching, empty feeling in my stomach. "I promise, it won't be you. It won't be you, or Ella, or Beth, or Quinn, or Cyan, or Austin."

"What about you?" she whispers, and I flinch inside.

"It won't be me either" I say quietly, and pull her in for a hug. I grasp her tightly, blinking back tears. None of them know.

We make our way back to the group, both of us wearing shells of composure. Everyone had arrived while we were talking.

I look around at my family, and my heart bleeds.

"Let's go." Austin says grimly.

We stand so close our shoulders brush, except for Cyan who hovers about a foot or two away, lost in thought and determined to look bored. We walk through the woods, each footstep dragging. What if one of us was literally walking to their death?

Stop Ivory. You can't afford to think like that.

I feel a tap on my hand and look up to see Austin. I know him so well I can plainly read the look he gives me.

There is something you aren't telling us.

I smile in response, trying to look as though I don't understand what he's thinking. I know he is not convinced.

I glance forward again, keeping my eyes trained on our path, toward our destination. We cannot be the only ones in the woods at this hour. All of The Brink have to reach the town square in time for the reaping. People in these parts, however, never make themselves known. We tend to be quiet, seclusive folk.

And then I my gaze drifts to Ella. Tightly gripping Quinn's hand. This will be her first time.

I feel something on my left cheek, and reach up to touch a tear. I hurriedly run my sleeve over my eye, but June has caught my movement. Her eyes widen. I don't cry. I can't cry. I have to stay strong for them.

"Something in my eye," I mutter, and she gives me a small, unfocused smile. She is already lost in other thoughts.

Too soon our feet hit gravel, and other figures slide into sight. I force myself to keep my breathing even as peacekeepers stalk purposefully toward us.

"State your names and ages and we will point you to the correct groups," one yawns, and I suppress fury. The other stands with a clipboard and a pen. There is a moment of tense silence.

"Bethany Gleeson." She steps forward, her voice cracking. The clipboard carrying peacekeeper scans the list and makes a tiny checkmark. His partner jabs a finger toward a huddle of fourteen year old girls off to the left, tightly packed and controlled by more white coated men.

She looks at me, and I nod, reaching over and giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

As she melds with the crowd, Cyan steps forward. "Carly Woodsthine" She says, her voice dripping with sticky innocence. Austin pinches her hard, and she glares at him. "Fine. Cyan Rithing"

The peacekeepers stare at her with wary eyes, scribbling a note on the list, and I try not to shout at both them and the girl standing defiantly in front of them. What did she think she was playing at? Did she want to cause trouble?

She disappeared into the crowd, heading for the group described. Hopefully she would find her way.

"Next."

"Quinn Clovayn"

"Seventeen?"

"Yes" She confirmed, wearing a shaky smile

"Can't point it out from here. Look for Brigid, in the far right corner. She'll escort you"

Quinn nods and stiffly walks away. The peacekeeper switches his gaze to my little trooper.

"You?" He asks gruffly, and her eyes widen. She steps back, shaking her head. "I don't want to." She mutters. "Take me back..."

I kneel next to her. "Ella, hun? Please give the man your name. You won't get hurt, I promise." I grasp her cold hands. "I swear."

She bites her lip, then bravely steps forward and tilts up her chin. "Annabella Rye."

The pen again, scans the list, checks her name off, and motions to a nearby group of huddled twelve year olds.

Next I step up, gazing steadily but coldly into a pair of emotionless eyes. Before they can I ask, I say "Ivory Legend."

My name is checked off, and I am roughly steered into the crowd. I look back in time to see a flash of Austin's blonde hair over all the heads. I also hear his voice, shouting something unintelligible over the ruckus. I think I catch the word "name", and bite my lip.

I face forward just in time to avoid colliding with another girl, her immaculate, shiny black hair fluffed and curled to perfection, her eyes heavily outlined in sparkly eyeliner.

Usually this type would make a snide remark, or at least an indignant expression. Instead she stares tensely forward, her eyes locked on the stage, her lips dry from countless times of swiping her tongue over them. She is nervously anticipating the drawing.

I crush the impending feeling of dread in my gut, looking wildly around to try to pinpoint all of my family. I see Austin standing near the front, on the far side of a group of boys. Their knuckles crack and their eyes flash with menacing excitement. Austin leans as far from them as he dares, disgusted by their eager acceptance of this sadistic game.

Next I spot Cyan, and Beth right after. They stand relatively close to both each other and to me. I look around, but I don't see June. Ella could be nearby, but she is shorter. There is a good chance she was just hidden by the cluster of figures surrounding us, pressing in on me from all sides.

Everything seems to vibrate as the sound of a clicking microphone suddenly resonates in the air. I slowly turn my eyes toward the stage to see a woman who hadn't been there minutes before.

She was tall, but not as tall as she appeared; though in reality her height may have varied from five foot seven to six foot, she appeared stretched; her waist, arms, legs, and hips were very thin, her neck rather long, ad her blonde hair willowy and fanning behind her. It just brushed a pair of jutted shoulders. I try to look past her small black eyes, her pink, flat cheeks, and the decorative black swirls lining her complexion, but the amount of layered frills in her outfit was so plentiful I felt dizzy just glancing at it.

"Ah," she breathes into the microphone, which is turned up too loud and is far too close. I struggle not to clamp my hands over my ears. "Welcome to the sixty first annual Hunger Games! My name, as you all know, is Verta Telgrine, your Reaping host! But what we're here to find out, on this very special occasion, is your names." Verta laughs. Her voice is surprisingly clear compared to her coarse appearance. "Two of them, to be exact. But let us not rush through the ceremony!"

The Reaping drags on, as it always does. A video is shown on the origin of our Games, the rebellion of District Thirteen. A deep voice lectures on about how deadly wrong decisions can be, about how the Capitol is generous. About how we should shut up and stay in line or we'll be shot down as an example to our fellow slaves, in other words.

And then there is the speech. Though the words are different, it always sounds the same to us; Like a low buzz pounding in our eardrums, attempting to chase away the heart throbbing terror and wild thoughts. It never succeeds.

Verta flashes her painfully white teeth toward us in a smile that looks extremely unconvincing to me, but has the rest of the crowd rapidly muttering.

"And now..." she beams, drawing the moment out until my hands are closed in fists and my scrubbed, stinging fingernails are digging into the palm of my hand. "...for the drawing."

She steps up to the podium. It is so quiet the whistling of the wind is literally audible. The silence presses down, like an invisible force.

"As is customary..." she flexes her manicured fingers, "ladies first."

I blink and her hand is suddenly groping at the bottom of a clear bowl. Names are piled high, most of hopeful, heavily outlined, careful handwriting. The other portion is filled with slips of barely intelligible, purposefully light labels, a remnant of hope that it will be unreadable and returned.

A crinkle echoes as her hand snags on a messily folded square of parchment. She lifts it up out of the death bowl, and pries it carefully open.

Squinting, she reads, over exaggerating each consonant.

"Ivory, Legend!"

I stare uncomprehendingly at the stage. Why was she saying my name? She should stop wasting time and get on with the Reaping.

And then it hits me, as reddening faces lined with fury and envy turn toward where I stand.

I force myself not to shake, to stay stiff. My eyes harden to fragments of green ice, my face wiping over like a slid mask.

I make myself take a step, and it seems to pound into my skin and soul, rebounding off of everything, growing louder and louder, until it fills my ears and I am convinced it is cruel laughter.

I swallow hard, and am about to continue when I feel a jerk on my arm.

I turn, breathing unevenly, and stare into the eyes of Cyan. She has grasped my wrist, and is for once, struggling to gain composure. I am surprised at a show of emotion. The corners of her lips tense, then curl. Her eyes flash with something I couldn't catch. Then she has let go, and I try to smile in reassurance.

I fail.

"Move." a voice growls suddenly, making me jump. A peacekeeper stands behind me, prodding my back with his gun. A shiver travels down my spine, like tricking water, and I start numbly forward.

"No!" a small voice cries unsteadily. There is a brief disturbance in the grouping of people, and Ella tumbles into the clear, her face tear tracked. "Wait!"

"Ella, get back with the others." I say soothingly, relieved to find my voice steady. "It's okay."

"But you can't go! Make them choose again!" Her hands find my sleeve and she grips it, trying to hold on as the peacekeeper urges me forward. He signals to his partners, and they start forward.

I stop. "Ella, go back please, it's fine, everything is going to be fine" I plead loudly, speaking over her as she tries to say something. I hear June as well, a little bit away, struggling to keep it together. They were so strong.

I wish I had warned them, but I hadn't wanted them to worry. I didn't actually consider it happening. Both were mistakes.

The crowd parts again and Austin and Quinn appear. She leans down and slides her arms around Ella, steering her away as she shouts. Austin whispers to her, but his gaze is locked on me. By this time I am too far away to see what is in his eyes.

I am forced up the stairs and onto the stage. Traditionally the female tribute stays to see her District partner, but seeing the potential ruckus Verta waves me on into the Justice Building, beaming.

"And now," she calls her voice behind me as I hurry toward the building, "for the male-"

She is cut off as the door slams. The sound echoes in the sudden silence, and I feel a wave of a feeling that I can't quite pinpoint...something in between terror, dread, and oddly relief.

At least it was me and not them.

The peacekeepers keep me moving, until I come to a small room with blank metal walls and a small couch. I gaze at it until one shoves me forward onto it.

"Wait here," they command, and turn back to the open door.

They are about to stalk through when Austin tumbles in. My blood runs cold, but his next words dismiss my inference that he had been chosen.

"How many times was your name in the Reaping?" He demands loudly, walking over and leaning close to me. I bite my lip and avoid his gaze, "how many times, Ivory?"

He grabs my shoulders and shakes them roughly. I look up at him, then close my eyes.

"Fifty six," I shrug, and his deep eyes flash with shock. White gloved hands pull him back, veering toward the door, but he fights to get to me.

"I could have helped!" He shouts, and something wet glistens on his cheek. I stare. "I could have shared the tesserae! You wouldn't be-"

He is successfully pulled through the door, and I hear a rough slamming noise and a short muffled gasp. My heart leaps and I pray he hasn't been injured. Or worse.

His unfinished words linger in my mind as I gaze unblinkingly and distant at the floor. I wait for what I know is coming.

I would release myself, would break down and sob pathetically, but there are cameras for sure nestled in these walls. I will not show weakness. They want a reaction.

Instead I turn my cold eyes to the ceiling and let my face fall blank. I am a shell. I am seemingly unbreakable, yet already broken.

Until visitors are permitted.

As the door opens and I see the dirt streaked crumpled faces of my neighbors I lose all resolve and rush to meet them. It is not like Austin, who understands. Ella and June and Beth and even Cyan can only comprehend the fact that I am leaving.

And I, though I may try, don't expect I shall return.

I hold Ella's small, thin frame in my arms, ruffling her silky blonde hair and wiping away her tears with my coarse thumb. "Hey," I manage to grin. "You're okay. You're my little trooper."

She nods numbly, and I rest my chin on her head for a moment, then turn away to June and Beth, who have wet eyes but dry cheeks.

I hug them both, though June is almost my height and I have to lean up a little to reach her. I stroke Beth's dark fingers and ruffle her hair. She laughs, but the sound is flat and heavy. June looks practically dead. Her skin is pale, her eyes dim. I lock my gaze on her and send her a silent message through my expression. "Everything is going to be fine."

Except it's not. Not for me.

I approach Cyan, and hold out a hand. She takes it, trying not to grip too tightly or show signs of distress. "Take care Legend."

"You too Rithing." I grin. "Work on your aim. You do want to catch food right? Not scare it away?"

We look at each other for a moment, silent. Then, she wraps her arms around me and buries her head in my shoulder. I curl my hands around her black hair, surprised and choked by this sudden un-Cyan like affection.

She backs away from me, looking ruffled and distressed. I fail at returning a smile.

Quinn steps up next and we fall into a perfectly fit hug, her face serious and solemn, but masking any heavy sadness or fear.

"It's only for a little while," she murmurs, holding my cold hands in hers, "and then you'll be back and everything will be the same as always."

I stare at her, my eye tracing over her weary face, following the creased lines and crinkled eyes, the stiffness of her bones, the thin line that represents her chapped lips pressed together, her few freckles dark against her whitened face... And yet hope lingers in her eyes, desperate, pleading, hungry hope.

I look around at the faces of my comrades. I look down at my weathered hands.

Could they ever possibly tighten around the neck of a human being? A living, breathing soul, a beating heart, most likely with a family back home?

For the people standing around me, they would. I think.

"Yeah." I smile, hoping the lie doesn't linger obviously as the words slip from off my tongue. "I'll be back soon."

The peacekeepers suddenly return in the doorway, hustling through and pulling my loved ones back. "Survive!" I shout to them before the doors shut tightly and I am left with only the company of my echoing word.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated!**

**-Caxis**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello! Despite the fact I said I would only continue if I got response, I changed my mind, it was too fun to write. So, here's the next chapter.**

**by the way, something I forgot to mention in the first chapter that I noticed a lot of other authors doing... I do NOT own Hunger Games. That privelage goes to Suzanne Collins, which you all probably know but I felt like I had to mention it.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

I do not recognize my male counterpart. He is scrawny and edgy, with frizzled blonde hair and two mousy eyes adorning a freckled face. When I stand next to him, he looks more than a year younger, but despite his short, thin frame he is actually fifteen.

I stare from the other side of the train as he rubs his thumb over the foggy lenses of his glasses. His movements are stiff and agitated. I feel a stab of pity. Why couldn't the Games have picked on the countless number of folk eager to play? Why did it have to single out the innocent?

My seat is cushioned. Impractical looking glass chandeliers and tables take up most of the car, basking it in painfully bright light.

Verta sits awkwardly between us, at a centered set of dining tables. She licks traces of a creamy orange sauce from her fingers. The harsh light illuminates her elongated features and broken hair.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like anything else to eat dear?" She says sweetly. "An apple isn't much."

I shake my head. The choices are plentiful on this luxury ride, but I had felt wary of anything unrecognizable. An apple had been my final decision. The skin had been sugared, the juice enhanced. It was delicious, and gave me a bubbling desire for more, yet at the same time I was disgusted by the changes. They had manipulated a common, natural joy into another one of their hot messes, and I didn't want to enjoy it. I had pushed down my hunger and turned away.

Verta nods tiredly and returns to her meal. She doesn't bother asking the boy. He won't speak.

I knew nothing about his family or friend situation. I hadn't even known his name until I had seen the nametag on his mandatory wristband; like the kind you'd see at a wealthier doctor's office.

Wyatt Nolden. I think it is odd that I do not recognize the name.

I glance down at my own wristband, an unattractive custard color with tiny etched letters. I pick with my nail at the paper near the "o" in "Ivory".

About two hours ago, after we had been moved from the Justice Building, through the mob of flashing cameras, and into a sleek, high quality Capitol tribute's train, I had ripped away the dress and slid myself into a soft blue sweatshirt and fuzzy white pants. The bottoms were probably sleepwear, but I hadn't cared.

Then I had taken at least a half an hour to stand at the sink and feign scrubbing my face. I could freely let tears come when they were shielded by fragrant bubbles. Cameras couldn't see my weakness under the mask of fussiness.

After I had cried away pounds, I felt an icy coldness blanket me. No tears would suddenly come. All my sadness had been washed away in the breath of a moment.

Feeling sorry for myself wouldn't get me through this. How did I want to spend the last moments of my life?

My stiff fingers had worked their way through a loose auburn braid, pulling my uncontrollable hair into ordered locks down my back. My green eyes looked dead to me in the mirror.

I had walked down to the dining car barefoot and polished. Then ordered back up to slip on shoes.

Verta coughs and I blink, looking up abruptly. "Sorry?"

"I was just informing you," she says crossly, "that your mentor would like to speak with you both. He should be here very –"

Her words are drowned out by the sound of a dull thud on the other side of the door.

It repeatedly echoes, growing more rapid and impatient. I distinctly hear a voice.

"Ruddy door," It mutters.

Verta, startled, stands and clicks her way to the wooden entrance in her jagged black heels. She pulls it open and comes face to face with a wicked knife. The point brushes the skin on her nose and pricks it.

She gasps and stumbles back. "Ethan Steele, what the-"

"Is this them?" His voice is unexpectedly soft and even for his rough look; a large, gray leather jacket over a pair of wide shoulders, and eerily piercing whitish blue eyes wide –set in a carved face with a square jaw. His black hair has been recently cut, and is only now starting to grow out. A silver stud decorates one ear.

"Yes," Verta sniffs crossly, brushing the tip of her narrow nose. "Not quite sure what to make of them yet, they'd hardly talk to me." She sighs and continues talking as if Wyatt and I aren't there. "You'd think they'd want all the help they could get," Verta says loudly, glancing at us, "seeing as they both have quite caring family back home. It's selfish, really, that they aren't going to even try not to end up as ash in a cardboard box. They must not care what-"

"Nip it." Ethan growls, catching my clenched hands and the boiling fury in my eyes. She dares to accuse us of selfishness? To remind us of what we have left? "Leave the lecturing to me."

Verta makes an odd noise in her throat, casts me a haughty look, and clicks out the open door. She turns to run her fingers over the dent marks in the wood where our mentor had stabbed it with a knife. "You owe the train a new door." She snarls, and slams it.

Ethan Steele makes a rude gesture to the door. My lips twitch. He sees and smirks. Wyatt shifts, looking uncomfortable.

I take another long look at our mentor. His eyes are not so cold and shocking once you get used to them. I see warmth and light in the blue.

I decide I like him.

"So," he drops into Verta's seat, but whereas her posture and mannerism made the car feel larger and awkward, he fills the space and we are all suddenly closer. "I'm just throwing a guess out here, but can I assume you both want to stay alive?"

I bite my lip, and nod. Wyatt, though his eyes are hopeless, nods in sync.

Ethan stands and paces. "Surviving these games," he begins, twirling the knife in his fingers, "doesn't only rely on your killing skill, though that'll do you a damn amount of good. This is a show."

He raises his thick eyebrows. "A show is meant to be entertaining. So if you want to win…" He suddenly stops walking. "You have to give the people what they want."

I scowl. Why please someone who cheers for our deaths?

"You can approach this in many different ways." Ethan slips from his pocket some kind of thick pen. He turns to the wall, coated in fancy paper, and starts to write, like a teacher with a chalkboard. I think of Verta's face when she sees it.

He scribbles for a while, then steps back and shows us the list.

_Strong and silent_

_Bloodthirsty_

_fragile_

_humorous_

_sarcastic_

_somber_

_abrupt/honest_

_responsible_

_nervous_

_sexy_

_unsure_

_optimistic _

"These are basic characteristics that tributes often use." He throws the pen to the side, knocking over a glass table ornament. Wyatt flinches as it shatters into millions of glittering pieces. Ethan Steele picks up the knife. "However, some of the tributes made mistakes."

I jump as he slams the knife into the wall and scrapes a jagged line into the wallpaper. It screeches in protest, and the sound hurts my ears, but I stay still. My partner pulls his palms over his ears. Ethan backs away again.

_fragile. _Gone.

He has crossed it out.

"Tributes can't be breakable. They'll last three minutes, if that." He turns back to the wall.

_Screeeech._

_Sarcastic. _Gone.

"Sarcasm will get you nowhere." He sighs. "Unless you want to lose sponsors instead of gain them. It's insulting, and rude."

_Screeeech._

_Abrupt/honesty_. Gone.

"Yes, you should be honest. But if you're asked about your audience, in no way should you insult them, however much you want to punch them in the face for cheering on your death."

_Screeeech._

_Nervous. _Gone.

He doesn't even bother to explain. He just shakes his head.

_Screeeech._

_Unsure. _Gone.

"Everything you say or do," He begins slowly, "must be confident. You are _survivors._ Not mice."

He stabs the wall again, and I brace myself again for the noise, but he merely leaves it to hang. Ethan approaches us.

"Now, the interviews where this will come to play aren't until later. Usually mentors focus on what's presently coming up. But I cannot stress the importance of choosing a trait. You have to represent something. Think about it."

He waits for us to say something. We don't.

"Bed. Now."

"But it's only eight." Wyatt protests, and Ethan shakes his head.

"You need your rest tonight. Tomorrow, the fun begins." He laughs humorlessly.

I stand, staring evenly at our mentor. I am about to leave, but then I glance at the wall and I think it is time to set something straight. I walk over to the knife.

His eyebrows crease. "Ivory…"

I don't look at him as I grip the handle and drag it across the wall. I scratch reverently, straining to pull it. Ethan made it look easily. A bead of sweat rolls down my forehead.

I drop the knife and turn around. "I'm no career."

_Bloodthirsty. _Gone.

My feet find their way to the door. I grip the knob, slip through to the other side, and turn my head.

I catch a glimpse of Wyatt, and stop. I can't read his expression, but it tugs at me. His eyes look like June's.

The image of them burns into my mind as the door shuts.

* * *

I sit straight up, the silky covers tossed around and my breathing heavy. I cannot sleep. No matter how hard I try, all I see is Ella as she runs toward me, crying my name. Her voice in my mind is as distraught as then, and it makes my eyes burn with tears, but I refuse to cry.

I slip out of bed and walk to the window. The world passes by in a blur of green and black. In the distance I see a shape and know it is the Capitol. We will be there by morning. Occasionally, a star would gleam, but the night would wash it away before I could feel happiness.

I love stars.

Suddenly, even though I am on a train with rich fabrics and the utmost comfort, where I will never starve, where I am famous, I miss my life so much I have to lean against the window to support myself.

I miss the nights spent lying in the dew dripped grass, pointing out constellations and laughing with my family under the comfort of rustling branches.

I miss rainy days, where June and I would jump in all the puddles and Cyan would roll her eyes and snap at us as we splashed her, but we would know she secretly enjoyed it.

I miss the comfort of my wool hunting jacket.

I miss Ella's singing, soft and beautiful, as she worked in the garden she keeps behind her shabby little house.

I miss Ella's little brother too. My name was the first he learned, because I would watch him for Mr. and Mrs. Rye when they had to work all day.

I miss Beth's laugh, so bright it could lift your spirits in an instant, and her pretty skin, as smooth and rich as chocolate.

I miss Quinn's favorite sweatshirt, which was simply white with messages from us written in pen from the collar to the pockets.

I miss Austin's fear of heights, and how he'd pretend he didn't have it.

I miss…

I open my eyes and push myself from the window as I hear a noise. My hands find their way instinctively to my neck, where I clutch the necklace I always wear. It is a simple silver chain with seven little trinkets strung onto it. I always kept this with me. It was of the utmost importance. Each object represented someone I loved.

One was the small conch shell Ella had found for me on one of our rare excursions to a beach. Though we had many lakes and rivers in District four, our beaches were mostly privately owned and required pay. There was one, however, that was rather far and our favorite. It had the most beautiful white sand, and though it was smaller it was the coziest to us. A group of rocks rested on one side, flat and halfway set into the water. A tide pool plentiful with little fish and plants was hidden behind it. We would often go here on birthdays. The shell is thick and beautiful, with swirls of color set into the surface.

Another was a black arrowhead that Cyan had given me. It was the last of the rock collection she had previously kept, until a bad storm had wrecked most of her house last winter and it was lost. I'd find myself rubbing my thumb over the smooth surface when I was agitated.

Strung next to it was a tiny dream catcher. It was handmade by June, during a period of time where I was having terrible nightmares. You could tell the weaving was done cautiously and carefully. The feathers were that of an eagle.

A little glass vial held a bit of black ink, taken from Beth, who loved to write. She had mixed it herself.

Quinn's object was a marble made of my birthstone, the September –born Sapphire. She had used all her savings to buy it in the richer part of the District. It had a little hook attached so I could hang it from the necklace.

Austin had given me an unusual looking coin that he had found while fishing. It looked very old, despite the fact he had polished it as best he could. It read, "United States of America, 2002". According to the faded silver face it was called a quarter.

The last trinket was a simple copper key. It had opened the door to my old house, where I had spent my younger days with my father and sister.

I had no object for my mother.

Another noise wrenches me out of my thoughts. It sounds like it comes from the left. I hesitantly step to the wall and press my ear against it.

Another sob, clearer now that I am closer, chokes through the room on the other side. I breathe deeply, hearing the voice, devoid of hope.

I walk to my door and tug it open. I glance around the slightly shaking train car, then leave my room to face the door of Wyatt's.

I enter without knocking, and see him sitting on the bed, still neatly made, with his head in his hands. His hair is dirty and tangled. His wet eyes widen as he looks up, startled and embarrassed.

I say nothing as I walk over to him. I sit next to his pale figure, still in the clothes he wore downstairs.

I open my arms and he hesitates before accepting them. He buries his face into my shoulder and his tears stain my shirt, but I don't care.

I hold him until he is quiet. His hands loosen their grip and I slip out of them.

I stand, walk over to his dresser, and pick up a washcloth and his brush. I run the cloth under steaming water and walk back over to him.

I still do not speak as I let water trickle through his blonde hair and down his neck. When it is soaked I take the brush and untangle the matted locks, until it is sleek and smooth.

I circle around and use the cloth to wipe the tears from his eyes. He just stares, unmoving. I should feel odd, taking care of him like this. I am not his mother. He is only a year younger. But it feels natural to comfort him when he needs someone. Despite the fact I hadn't known him before today, we are the only two from District four, and that is all that matters.

But then I remember the circumstances, that one of us will die, and the hand gripping the cloth falters. I start to back away, but Wyatt grabs my wrist and his eyes say all that his words cannot. They say thank you, and he understands. Which is why I feel no guilt when I leave. I have done what I can.

I hear no more sobbing that night.

* * *

**If you liked it, please give feedback! Be honest, and thanks for reading!**

**Caxis**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey everyone!  
**

**Sorry for the extremely long wait, I've been pretty busy and I sort of forgot to work on this...**

**A lot of this chapter is detail. I hope you like it, and I promise it won't take as long to post the next chapter.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

"Come… on… you… ruddy… brush!"

That is the voice I hear, muttering exasperatedly, as she attacks my hair. The auburn waves are heavily tangled, and the ends are uneven.

"You, my dear, are quite a handful!" The woman chirps, her ridiculously thick eyelashes fluttering. Her gold eyes (certainly contacts of some sort) squint in frustration and I wince as she tugs.

On my right, another woman with purple tinged, tightly curled hair rubs a special sort of tinged oil into my skin. It is soft and icy cold to the touch. "At least she appreciates basic personal hygiene." She laughs, the sound high pitched and flat. "Or her skin is naturally smooth. Whatever the case, we won't have to wax her down."

There is a tearing sound as the largest tat is ripped from my hair. I grit my teeth and choke down the yell of indignation bubbling in my throat.

"Finally!" She groans, then turns to flash me an artificially bright smile. "What did you say your name was hun?"

"Ivory," I say, straining to control my voice, then I ask, "yours?" even though I don't really care.

She giggles. "I'm Marcella. This is Eustacia…" she motions to the woman with the oil, "and that's Helix." She points to a man standing by the door. He has slick blonde hair and a winding snake tattoo down his neck. I hadn't noticed him before. He is talking to someone concealed just behind the frame.

"We're your team," she continues brightly, "and your stylist is Nero." She giggles pathetically again.

I nod, only half paying attention as her fingers work through my hair. My skin stings from the rough scrubbing of products and multicolored soap. The searing hot water hadn't helped either.

"You're so thin!" Eustacia remarks. "I would have thought the food was plentiful in District Four, what with all the fish."

The tension I feel now has nothing to do with pain. "I'm an orphan," I say dryly. "Every District has its rougher side."

"Oh dear!" She exclaims sympathetically, sadness dripping from her words. "It must be hard, not having a family."

"I didn't say I didn't have a family." I reply, thinking of Austin's smile and June's eyes… and then I remember Wyatt. How peculiar that he should remind me of her, when she radiates strength and hides her weakness where he has an air of helplessness.

Before Eustacia can speak, Helix steps aside, and a figure emerges into the room.

It is another man, this one with layered black hair down to the peak of his neck. Though he is most likely in his forties, he could have been thirty. The youthful appearance, however, seems natural. The only thing hinting at an older age was the way his gray eyes crinkled when he smiled. He too, had tattoos. They were of a string of stars, identical, both curling around each wrist like bracelets.

"Hello Ivory," He smiles warmly, unlike the heavily glossed grins of the prep team, "I'm Nero. If you will, I'd like you to step into the next room so we can proceed with the preparations for your first appearance in the opening ceremony."

He gestures to the open door, and I try to smile as I step through into a room similar to the one I've left. This space, however, has a closet and a screened portion, plus a few unidentified boxes.

"Sit," he offers me a plush crimson armchair, and I drop into it, tightening the straps of the feathery white robe I adorn. Under it, my body feels cleaner and smoother than it has in years, and my dark hair falls silkily, though unevenly, around my shoulders.

"Now, as you know, it is customary to have the outfits correspond with the theme of your District," he says, rummaging through the closet. "At first I had a bit of trouble trying to come up with ideas that would really impact the audience, but I finally stumbled across a fabric that gave me an interesting idea which-"

"I'm a fish aren't I?" I blurt out, unable to hide my despair.

He chuckles. "No Ivory, you aren't a fish."

I blink. "But I'm the fishing district."

"And I am very well aware of that." He leans so close I can smell mint on his breath. "But you must be memorable, my dear. Not childish, but worthy. Your presence must throw life and light onto the stage in a way no other costume could." His eyes dance with excitement. "This is my first project, Miss Legend. My very first. And I have vowed not to make it my last."

He turns abruptly back to the closet and digs his hands in, groping for something in the back. "I like you already, Ivory," he laughs. "I'm presently unsure why, but something about you intrigues me. I feel like you may have a chance." His expression is teasing but his eyes are serious. I am surprised and suddenly nervous.

He instructs me to close my eyes. I reluctantly do so as he slips off the robe. The darkness behind my eyelids is surprisingly comforting as the softest, lightest fabric I have ever felt slides down my arms and cloaks my skin, fitting like a puzzle piece.

He adjusts places in the cloth, tightening and tying as he circles me. "Marvelous."

I lose track of time as he works, adding more layers and taking some away, wrapping things around my neck and waist, cutting and styling my hair. All I know is that it is long before he finally tells me to look.

His steady hand guides me to an ornate mirror screwed into the wall, and my eyes widen. I am so speechless I can't even gasp.

I am fitted in a dress, but it is unlike any that I have ever seen, even in past games.

The main layer of thick fabric is sleeveless, but it doesn't seem to cut off at the shoulders. The deep, hypnotizing meld of different shades of blue gradually lightens to match my tone at the rim, carefully and deliberately, so it looks like the dress almost fades into my skin. Only faint lines separate the straps from my shoulders, but from a distance, who could tell? It is long and rippling, the fabric carefully folded to cast shadows across the skirt and highlight other sections of cloth. The body of the dress is tight at my waist, but is free and silky from there to the end of the dress. While in the front the hem stops, the wavy fabric continues in the back, gradually thinning into a silky bluish substance like veil material, which floats with movement.

On top of this layer is another of ever so slightly darker blue, translucent fabric, which leaves my shoulders bare and twists down my arms to my hands, where the sleeve is long and billowing. This is also very free. It attaches to the dress at the waist, creating a bubble, then cloaks the skirt in a chaos of gossamer strips, swirling in unsymmetrical patterns. When the slightest movement is made the fabric shifts and ripples, light playing on the surface. It looks just like the cascading of water.

My auburn hair, usually a murky color and a chaos of split waves, is trimmed neatly, but keeps its length. Now brushed, washed, and oiled, it is a rich chocolate brown with a slight reddish tinge. Each smooth wave gleams and shines under the fluorescent lights, spiraling down my back.

The makeup is light but efficient. My eyes are traced slightly with very dark blue eyeliner, and my eyelashes have just a hint of white sparkle in them, so they gleam as I move. My lips are a soft pink, and my cheekbones are accented with a blush slightly darker than my normal color.

I wear simple but beautiful earrings, of silver starfishes. My necklace matches, the ornament strung on a thin light blue string.

Each one of my fingernails is painted the same. At the core, a heavy dark blue fades into an ocean color, which lightens to a sky hue, which gradually bubbles into a white foam –like texture at the tip.

My shoes are plain white flats, so it is easy for me to walk. They are not seen under the blossom of the dress.

I try to speak and end up emitting a sound between a choke and a high pitched gasp.

Nero chuckles. "I think that's a sign of approval?"

I vigorously nod, reaching out with trembling fingers to stroke the mirror, then the skirt of the dress. It's real.

I felt alive. I felt as free as the flowing water I so resembled.

"The opening ceremony is starting soon." He smiles. "We'd better lead you to your chariot."

The rooms pass by in blurs, my mind transfixed on what I am wearing. I suddenly feel a pair of eyes on me.

I shake myself from the trance and look around to see a pair of snow white horses, their manes tinted blue, latched to an elegant carriage of light pine wood, with carvings decorating the sleek surface.

Ethan stands a few feet away. When he catches my eye he flashes a thumbs up and grins, winking.

I can't help but laugh, and flush a little. I notice Wyatt next to me, his blonde hair parted far to the side so the bangs he had hidden before now swing just above his eyes. His chin is heavily accented, making his face look slightly more muscular. Wide blue padded shoulders conceal the scrawniness of his complexion. I almost don't recognize him.

"You look smart," I tell him, grinning a bit in reassurance. His lips twitch into a half smile, but his eyes are still nervous and his hands are clenched.

I hear music, and voices that are unintelligible over the wild crowd. I realize District One's carriage must have been pulled onto the stage, and I crane my neck to get a peek at their costumes.

The girl has short light brown hair, almost brushing her shoulders, and brown eyes to match. The tips of her locks are curled, and they sleekly part around a glittering tiara of gemstones. Her dress is knee length and blinding but simple, pure white, with a wide v-neck and a large jewel encrusted belt. Her magenta heels look dagger sharp.

Her perfectly polished red nails flash as she waves, her smile artificially bright.

Under the dazzling picture of her portrayed on the screen, a name flashes.

Cherry Garnelle.

Cherry? What kind of a sick name was that? I feel a stab of pity for the poor dear, until she angles more in my direction and I catch the murderous raging glint in her eyes.

Survival today. Pity later.

Her company is uninteresting. His black hair is curly and his eyes are wide. Despite the bejeweled suit, Cherry stands in the light and throws him into the shadow. I watch as he tries to look fearless, but I see the fright in his posture and his expression. I don't even bother to read his name. He will not last long. That's one "Career" I won't have to worry about. Poor thing was probably picked like Wyatt and I; two uneager pebbles out of a river of bloodthirsty options.

My gaze drifts to the crowd. I see flashes of neon colors everywhere, complimented with large feathers and flashing sequins. Incoherent praise is shouted, and I watch a cotton boa as it is tossed in the air. They capture my attention for a moment. What an odd bunch.

I tear my gaze away to see I missed the District Two tributes. I curse under my breath as District Three emerges, and hurry to climb in the left side of the carriage, my eyes trained on the impressive pair of Three's.

The girl of this pair is lean and tall, with hair of an almost highlighter blonde, wispy and light, and a long, narrow nose. Her eyes are a shade of brown only slightly darker than Cherry's, but whereas the latter's were narrow and seductive, hers are wide and guarded. The screen flashes. Gwen Walflight… I'd have to remember that.

When I see her partner my breath catches.

His hair was brown, the kind of rich brown you saw in fresh hot cocoa or upturned earth smoothed after rain. It was long, the soft tips brushing his neck, and swooped in gentle waves that hovered over his misty blueish gray eyes. I watch as they blink, the very movement slow and methodical, and I try to place what his eyes reminded me of. They were too dark for sky but too piercing for ocean. Mist? No, much too blue. The color was just unearthly.

I watch as he smiles and blows a kiss. The capitol crowd is a blur of movement, screaming in admiration. I try to turn my eyes to our own chariot, to smoothing my dress, but my gaze eventually drifts back to him as he steadily rides away. As I watch, he twists around and meets my eyes. They're steady, with none of the savage excitement in the expression of the other Careers. This strikes me as odd.

I realize I haven't looked away. He grins, and I fight the flush rising in my cheeks. What was wrong with me?

My carriage lurches and I tear away, my jaw clenched. My green eyes roam over the crowd as we pull out, and my lips stretch into a goading smile.

I can hear the intake of breath, and the air seems to freeze for a split second as my dress, rippling over the side of the carriage, catches the light. Then the silence breaks and the entire Capitol is chorusing their approval, shouting my name, which has flashed on the screen above.

_Ivory Legend_.

I raise a soft hand to wave, the sleeve of my gown slipping down my arm. I glance briefly back at Wyatt. He hasn't reacted to the crowd; in fact, his expression is curious. He stares at me, and I can't recognize the look in his small eyes. I smile reassuringly, then twist back to wink at the crowd.

I'm unsure why I'm playing along. I surely don't want their favor. Those who have condemned me are my enemies.

How conflicting these games are…

As the chariot reaches the end platform, I see the tributes from the first three districts are still pooled off to the side. I slide to the ground, brushing the blue silk hem of my costume off of the seat. I reach over to grab Wyatt's hand and help him down. He's sweating, and I realize how nervous he had been.

I walk over to the group, trying to hide my uncertainty, and meet their gazes with cold, casual eyes. I scan the group and see a couple of looming figures in the back that must have been the district two tributes. I force down a shudder. Masonry. Both the girl and the boy are tall and broad shouldered, with thick muscled arms and legs. Both have dark grey eyes, thick jaws, and stony expressions. The girl is just a bit shorter, with sleek black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her lips are thin and unsmiling. The boy has hair cut just short of a buzz, dirty blonde. He grins as I approached, but it resembles more of a lopsided snarl. A few of his teeth look pointed. He has small scars on his arm and on one cheek.

I stand as far as I can from them, which put me near the district three girl and the district one boy. He glances as me briefly before his eyes dart back to the floor, and Gwen just studies me carefully.

I try to avoid everyone's gazes and stare straight ahead, but right across from me is the district three boy, and he's staring back. I instinctively take a small step back as he grins again, his aura so serene and dangerous at the same time. He was a career; he had to be. The same as the rest. Brutal and ruthless.

So why was he harder to decipher than the others?

I blink as I see him saunter over. _He saunters, _I tell myself irritably. _Freaking saunters. So shut _up_, mind. _

He jerks his head toward my dress. "Nice."

I just look at him evenly. "Thanks."

He squints, evidently trying to remember something, and brushes his bangs back casually with one hand. "Ivory. That's your name." He looks pleased that he could remember.

"Congratulations. You know my name." I say sardonically. "Your prize is imminent death in the arena." I look him up and down in distaste, like I don't think he has a chance, but privately I know he does. Distance yourself from the tributes, Ivory. Don't make this harder on yourself.

There will be no sob stories for me here. I will focus on the one I have back home.

I push past him and walk, though I don't know where I'm going.

"Hey!" I groan inwardly as he walks after me, and grabs my arm. "That was funny," He chuckles. "You're pretty funny."

I pull my arm away and look around for something to help me end this conversation.

"You seem restless," He offers, still smiling.

I cross my arms and look at him with narrowed eyes. "Of course I'm restless. I'm about to fight to the _death _if you haven't noticed. Or have you been too busy combing your pretty hair?"

"Ah," He waves his hand, as if the subject was unimportant. "You shouldn't be worried. You're one of the first districts tributes. You have a pretty good shot at going home." He grins wider.

"That isn't the point!" I say indignantly. "We have to… I mean… we're killing…"

"And?" He shrugs. "People die all the time. It's human nature. It's been like that forever." He chuckles again. "This is just giving them a more exciting way to go. It's fun."

"Maybe for you," I hiss, then I give him a big shove, which he doesn't expect. He stumbles back into the wall. "But _I _certainly didn't want to be here, and neither did half the tributes in these games. We're here because our names were thrown into a glass bowl and chosen. Not everyone has the luxury of preparing for this, either. Some of us are human!"

"But…" He struggles to speak, bewildered. "But, you _wrote _the names in the reaping bowl. If you didn't want to be here, why did you put any in?"

I shout with anger, feeling my face burn. The other tributes glance over curiously. "Because we need to eat! Because…" I stop, and shake my head. "Never mind. It's pointless to argue with you. You don't understand." I look at you in real distaste this time.

I think he's about to say something, but just then the door behind the parked carriages swings open. I look around, realizing the other districts have already arrived, and the crowd is much larger. I also realize the audience has quieted to a loud humming of small talk, as opposed to the approving roar.

A man I only recognize from my glimpses of television stands in the open door. He has dark hair that curls into a small beard. Beady eyes peer out from skin that looks like pale plastic stretched over cardboard. He hasn't a single wrinkle, and it looks as if his tear ducts have been clipped. His lips are purple. I resist the compelling urge to look away.

His smile looks painful, but his eyes are calm and calculating. He spreads his arms wide. "Welcome to the Capitol, young tributes." He says, his voice deep and flat. "If you could just walk straight through the door and make your way to the Training Center, we can help make you comfortable."

President Rome scans the crowd briefly. His eyes seem to linger on the district three boy, still leaning against the wall. I realize I don't know his name.

We file through the small, ornate door. I step through after a small girl with frizzy reddish hair, and suddenly my prep team has swooped onto me. I'm jostled by hands.

"It was stunning!" Marcella sighs, giggling. Her long nails bite into my shoulders.

"Nero's certainly proved himself. The last stylist we had tucked the tributes into mermaid fins. Very flashy and appealing, but it was right chaos trying to get them off of the carriage." Eustacia nods, running her hands down the blue drape over my arms. I push down the instinct I have to pull away, smiling instead.

I notice Wyatt standing off to the side, near a large glass window. He's alone. Where is his prep team?

The two ladies hanging on my arms are suddenly distracted by Helix, who has brought them mugs of an unrecognizable steaming drink. I pull away, unnoticed, and approach my district partner.

"Where's your stylist?" I ask curiously, and he blinks, seeming to break from a trance.

"Oh… They probably just left with the crowd. It's fine." He shrugs. "I don't need their approval."

I can tell he's hurt, however dim the prep teams may be. "I thought you were great tonight." I offer. He sighs and smiles. It looks weak.

"You're never going to get anywhere with that smile." I grin. "C'mon. You can do it. Have some confidence."

Wyatt bites his lip uncertainly, then smiles again, wider. This one reaches his eyes.

It was June's smile. I see her suddenly, laughing. The sun shines brightly in my eyes, and I have to squint to distinguish her figure from the surrounding trees. Her hair bounces around her shoulders, her eyes bright with serenity.

"C'mon Iv! You're so slow!" She chuckles, smiling again. I feel my feet, bare against the grass. It's wet, which means there had been a rainfall not so long ago.

We jog through trees hanging low overhead, the leaves dripping water into our hair.

Soon I hear the gentle gurgling of the river, and see a rush of clear blue. I lean down to skim the water with my fingers, smiling at the cool sensation.

June points eagerly at the sky, and I glance up to see a light rainbow curling gently against a cloud. I gaze at it, transfixed.

"Ivory? Are you okay?"

Wyatt's face breaks through the colors of the rainbow suddenly, worried and uncertain.

"Hm?" I say, feeling dizzy. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well… you're sort of…" He reaches up and brushes his eyes suggestively.

I suddenly realize my cheeks are hot, and I blink back the tears stuck in my eyelashes.

I can't lose focus. I have to be strong.

"I'll see you around Wyatt." I turn around, my face an emotionless mask, and walk away without a second glance. I can't help him. No amount of kindness will help him in these games.

My family comes first.


End file.
